Living Things
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things tag: They weren't dead, either of them; Sam refuses to let them be.


**Living Things**  
K Hanna Korossy

They were pulling into the parking lot before Sam even realized where they were going, lost in the turmoil of his thoughts, the gut-twisting memory of Dean's tears. He frowned up at the large brick building, then over at his brother.

"What—?"

"Hospital. Best one in the area. Your hand, remember?"

Sam glanced down at the limb in question, wincing a little at the puffed skin already starting to discolor. He had tuned it out for a while, but it throbbed hot now that he was paying attention. Another look at Dean. "Yeah, I remember, but…" Sam blinked, caught the flicker in Dean's eye. But what, a broken hand was inconsequential next to a broken brother? Maybe so, but one they could fix, the other… "How do you know it's the best hospital in the area?" Sam switched tracks reluctantly.

Dean just raised an eyebrow before getting out of the car.

Right. Stupid question.

Sam climbed out into the cool late-fall air, careful not to jar his hand. Dean waited for him at the front of the car, just about where he'd been leaning when he'd finally shared what Sam had been prodding him to talk about all this time. Leaving Sam, after all this time, speechless.

His brother fell into step beside him as they headed into the hospital.

Another hospital. The shadow of the tall building chilled the air, and Sam shivered as they passed into the dimness. The memories were still a little too fresh and sharp. Sam only realized his steps had slowed when Dean hung back with him, dark eyes studying him.

"Sam, we have to. I can't patch this one up in a motel room." They'd already stopped to break into one for a quick shower and change of clothes, and Dean had looked over and winced at his hand then.

"I know." Sam sped up a few steps, then dragged again. "I know. I just…"

The lines of Dean's face, rigid and boxed-in since they'd gotten back into the car on that mountain road, softened. Not in helpless sorrow this time, but in empathy. "You want me to hold your hand, dude? The one that's not all purple and bloated?"

The humor, or maybe Dean attempting humor, took the edge off Sam's unease, and he cast his brother an outwardly annoyed, inwardly grateful look. No reapers at this hospital, no losing loved ones. Dean was at his side, healthy and wisecracking and…and there. Nothing to be afraid of. Sam licked his lips, nodded in capitulation, and forged on. Dean matched his pace again.

A broken hand was relatively low priority in emergency room triage. Dean filled out a clipboard full of paperwork, then they sat in the plastic waiting room and waited. Dean picked up a magazine to flip through without really looking—it was _Better Homes & Gardens, _for Pete's sake—and Sam alternately glanced at him and looked away, trying not to think about anything. Right now even focusing on the pain was better than the places his memory wanted to stray.

Sam shifted his hand from where he held it against his middle, to rest in his lap, and hissed at the jostling. Dean looked over, silently gauging how he was doing, then stood. Sam traced each step with sudden tension: Dean returning to the nurse's counter, a low conversation with a conspicuous absence of flirting, the woman leaving and returning with what looked like a huge field bandage, ties at both ends, middle bulging. Dean nodded his thanks and returned to Sam's side. He breathed a little easier again as Dean bent over his hand.

"They can't give you any drugs until the doctor sees you, but this should help."

Sam felt the cold even before it touched his skin, then grimaced as Dean very gently wrapped the soft ice pack around his hand and wrist, tying it just enough to anchor it in place. Sam curled his other hand around it.

Dean gave it a minute, eyeing him the whole time, then asked, "Better?"

Actually, it was. After the initial pain spike from the shock of cold, the worst of the hot stabbing faded, growing numb. Sam breathed out long and slow through his teeth, and nodded. "A lot. Thanks, man."

Dean patted his knee, then settled in the chair beside him again.

Sam ached. His body throbbed from the zombie girl's tackle, and his hand battered him with waves of pain even through the numbing cold. He still felt grave-chilled hands on his throat, and his head hurt from the bruising chaos of mind and body. Worst of all, he hurt for Dean, for the faltering plea that Sam find a way to lift some of the guilt and grief of their father's death. A plea Sam had only been able to answer with an equally soft and hopelessly inadequate, _I'm glad you're still here, Dean._

Dean hadn't looked impressed, but he hadn't said anything more and neither had Sam. Five minutes later they were back on the road as if they'd never stopped, the moment of vulnerability over. But Sam had seen it, and knew the awful effort Dean's casualness took, and ached for him.

He wasn't aware his head was sagging back against the wall until Dean lifted it with one careful hand, sliding something soft and bunched between Sam's skull and the hard plaster. The squeak and smell of leather told him exactly what it was, and Sam smiled with bittersweet love for a brother who worried about him even when he himself was falling apart.

Divorced from sight, his hearing sharpened despite the headache. There was a distant thrum of machinery and hushed voices as the medical staff worked. A mother crooned to her toddler in the corner, and a young couple held a whispered conversation across from them. A child's voice, no more than four or five, asked a question, and an older voice answered. Then the kid came closer, still asking—_this is my car, see?_—and to Sam's surprise, after a brief hesitation Dean was solemnly responding: _That's a great car, dude_. A serious conversation followed about the width of wheels and black versus blue paint jobs and how baby brothers try to eat convertibles—which Dean seemed unusually understanding about—and then Sam's brother and the kid were running the die cast cars along on the floor, complete with purring engine noises. Dean's sounded suspiciously like an Impala. His insane driving jiggled Sam's chair and, nestled into his makeshift pillow, he smiled and felt something in him lighten a little.

"Samuel Page?"

He barely registered the unfamiliar voice, but Dean's hand was suddenly circling his bicep. "That's us, Sammy," and Sam opened his eyes in surprise to find the ice pack limp and soggy and the waiting room almost empty, no kids in sight, only Dean watching him steadily.

"Dozed off," Sam mumbled.

"Yeah, I got that from the drooling," Dean responded with something near amusement, and actually chuckled when Sam wiped at his mouth. "C'mon, Sleeping Beauty, let's get you checked out."

It all felt familiar, like a bad memory: the gurney in the ER, the intrusive exam, the x-rays, then the doctor's deep-voiced questions and prodding. Except every time Sam turned his head, Dean was standing there by the doorway, keeping watch. It felt as though Dean should have been the one lying there being fixed, because Sam could see the damage even if the doctor couldn't. But the two of them were used to the world not seeing what they did. It was usually up to them to fix the invisible wrongs.

There was nothing in Dad's journal about this, however.

The word "surgery" yanked Sam's attention back, and he frowned at the doctor even as he felt Dean advance a step. _Can't you just put a cast on it?_the words floated over his head, and Sam wondered if they'd drugged him because it all felt so detached.

"No, I'm sorry, the break is displaced. It's not serious—it's outpatient surgery and he'll be out of here before nightfall—but it has to be done."

And that was that.

They waited together in the cubicle this time, Sam fighting the drowsiness of the pre-surgery meds, swallowing against the dull nausea in the pit of his stomach. And Dean…

"It's gonna be okay, Sam," his brother said wearily. "Out-patient, low risk—it's a broken hand, for God's sake. No big deal."

Except, it was_surgery_, with a dozen things that could go wrong with anesthesia and being totally vulnerable and someone cutting into you with no brother there to watch your back.

Or to wait with you outside while your last remaining loved one was wheeled away.

Sam reached out his good hand, asking silently and with a little embarrassment. Dean had been shying away from any physical contact since the crash, but he'd let Sam stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him on the road, maybe even leaned a little. Sam hadn't even realized how much he'd missed that.

Dean looked at him. "What, you really do want me to hold your hand?" he teased halfheartedly. But he took it in his own before Sam could even mutter a _shut up_, resting them both back on the gurney. He held on like Sam was fragile, but he held on.

"It's time," a cheerful nurse said, bustling into the room. She checked Sam's vitals, gently breaking their grip as she unlocked the wheels of Sam's gurney. "Say goodbye to your friend, sugar."

Sam swallowed, hating goodbyes, never wanting to say them again to anyone, least of all to Dean. And especially not with his brother looking so stricken as he stepped back. This was the Dean from the mountain road, in pain, raw, afraid of losing what little he had left.

By the time Sam came back, Dean would have himself shored up again. He'd tease about the cast, threaten to write something dirty on it, and make sure Sam didn't fall as he helped him to the car. And they'd go on to the next job and the one after that acting like everything was fine, like Sam wasn't grieving and scared, and Dean wasn't shredding apart. Sam's desperation had coaxed Dean out, had made him share the unseen burden he'd carried. Now, worry for Sam would make him bury it again.

And suddenly, the thought of going back to that, to the way things had been those last few weeks, made it hard for Sam to breathe. They couldn't keep going like this, pretending nothing was wrong while Dean died from the inside out. Sam couldn't keep going like this.

"Dean," he croaked, and his brother's head snapped up.

The open door of his face slammed shut at whatever he saw in Sam's. "No, Sam."

"You asked," Sam said stubbornly, and cursed the slur in his words. He didn't have much time, the nurse humming as she injected something into his IV. "You asked what I could say."

"Yeah, and you told me."

It just hadn't been enough, Sam was grateful Dean was still alive. He had just never wanted Dean to live only for him. His brother deserved a lot more than that.

He held out a hand again. Saw the resistance in Dean's face, wanting to say no, fighting twenty-three years of instincts. Sam shook his hand a little, demanding.

The wash of lethargy took him by surprise, distracting him, weighing down his arm and his eyelids. It was getting harder to remember what had been so important, but a glance at his brother's drawn face was reminder enough. "Dean," Sam murmured.

Dean muttered a curse and returned to his side, taking up Sam's hand in a hard grasp. "Dude, this isn't the time."

Sam ignored him, focusing on the one thing he needed to say before it got lost in the haze creeping over him. He pulled his brother down until Dean's face was inches from his own. "Even if you're right, he died _for_ you, man, not 'cause of you. He loved you, too, Dean. And if you need my forgiveness, you've got it. I'm not sorry."

"We have to go, Mr. Page," the nurse chirped. Sam heard her from a distance, sight and sound whirlpooling away. He gripped Dean's hand, then let it go. Dean stumbled back, like Sam had been the one keeping him upright.

The last thing Sam saw was his brother's wide, liquid eyes watching him be rolled away.

00000

He knew Dean was there, before he knew where _there _was or even who _he_ was.

The fog in his head slowly burned away to reveal a typical recovery room, and an atypical guest at the side of his bed.

"Y're not s'posed…" His mouth tasted like wool. "…be here."

Dean gave him a small smile. "Nurse made an exception for me 'cause I'm special."

Sam's eyes slipped shut and he chuckled weakly. Like anyone had ever stopped Dean from doing what he wanted. "Was she hot?"

"I didn't notice." Sam pried his eyes open at that, but Dean's face revealed nothing. "So, you feel okay?" he asked.

"Kinda high, but yeah. Li'l dizzy."

Dean's mouth curled again. "Yeah, well, enjoy it. Doc says you really did a number on your hand—you're gonna be a leftie and on painkillers for a while. Man, you survive a car accident with barely a scratch and a dead _chick_ takes you down?"

"Shut up," Sam groaned tiredly.

Surprisingly, Dean did. Long enough for Sam's eyes to slide shut again and his thoughts to wander. They circled back when he felt Dean lift fingers that were mostly numb, checking each one for circulation and movement.

Sam peered at him, seeing the intent frown as Dean made sure his brother had been fixed right, and channeled him for a moment. _Dad's gone, and you're the only one left who matters. _He cleared his throat. "Dean."

"Hmm?" his brother looked up, cocking an eyebrow.

Sam raised his half-dead fingers, tapping them on Dean's palm. "It was fixed, right? It's gonna be okay?"

Dean's eyes flicked away. "Sammy…"

Sam found the strength in himself, strength he'd probably gotten from Dean over the years, and gave his brother a soft, sure look. "It's gonna get better, all right? Dean. It will."

A pause, then Dean finally nodded once, although Sam knew it was only for his sake. His brother's eyes were still averted, his throat bobbing; Dean was just barely keeping it together. But he didn't move away, didn't shrug off Sam's touch like he had a lot those last weeks, and they were talking again, even if it hurt. The knot that had been clenched around Sam's heart since _that night _loosened a little.

By the time they left the hospital, they could even pretend they'd just been talking about his hand.

**The End**


End file.
